Tu Sei
by ShadowedSoulSpirit
Summary: Otabek thinks about his fellow rink mate and mentor, and about how the tragedy of his death will befall Kazakhstan. In memory of Denis Ten, the ice skater who built Kazakhstan's future.


**Tu Sei**

* * *

 **A Yuri on Ice dedicated oneshot.**

 **Summary: Otabek thinks about his fellow rink mate and mentor, and about how the tragedy of his death will befall Kazakhstan. In memory of Denis Ten, the ice skater who built Kazakhstan's future.**

* * *

The long, winding path to the podium was hard. But at least Otabek could say he wasn't embarking on it alone.

His ice skates cracked against the ice, and he thought bitterly of all the unforeseen talent buried in the sands of Kazakhstan. He thought about all the Russian skaters, bred for success, and how not all are identical than the last. He thought about the music, about those who came before him and tried and failed to scrape an international career together before their age took its toll.

He slid into a spread eagle. Frustration was his motivation, but it made his lines hard and aggravated.

At least he wasn't alone. He took some comfort in that. He slid onto one knee and glided across the ice.

"Just like that Otabek!" He heard the cheer, and he shook his head, focusing on his posture even as he heard the obnoxious photo clicks of his phone. "These are going up on the page for sure."

He hopped back up on both skates when his momentum could carry him no further, and he whipped around, skating for the wall. His arrival was met by laughter—and a high five he didn't return.

"Delete them," Otabek immediately demanded. His rink mate waved the phone at him and grinned.

"Win a better medal than me, and I will think about it."

He frowned, "You mean an Olympic medal."

"Of course. Dream big, Otabek. You're the hero of Kazakhstan after all."

His smile radiated, and he could still feel the impression of it after he left. His own words remained stuck in his mouth, his "but your Kazakhstan's dream" left wilting on his tongue.

Two became one on Almaty ice. He screams would never be loud enough.

* * *

Torment. Torment now formed his lines, made them sharp and hard and painful. His knee snapped against the ice, but he didn't feel the pain, the ache. He shoved himself up, fully extending his arms over his head. Reaching. Reaching for what, he never knew. The rink was silent, the gunshots of his skates echoing and echoing and echoing.

He crashed into a wall. He over rotated a Salchow. His fingers bled from scraping along the worn ice.

He wasn't done.

He would fight for every scrap of podium he could. He would medal at a Grand Prix. He would medal at an Olympics—but only if it was silver or gold.

 _"Dream big, Otabek."_ The voice echoed softly in his head. And he wanted to.

But it was hard taking the journey alone.

There were very few people who understood the blood that was given to rise in the international world as a skater from a country who rarely produced them. No one understood better practicing in a hot rink. No one understood better the torment and the long nights and the frustration of never being good enough.

The one who understood Otabek Altin the best was his rink mate, his friend. His fellow Kazakhstan skater. _Kazakhstan's dream._

But now that dream had shriveled up and died. Otabek wasn't sure it was his place to breathe life into it again.

* * *

Denis Ten, aged 25. The first Kazakhstan skater to stand at the podium at the World Championship, Four Continents, and the Olympics, among other things. Otabek had been watching his back since he entered the skating world, and he had every intention in following the path Denis's legacy had carved in the ice.

But then everything changed. Stopped. Like a skater on the rink, in the midst of a routine, when the music suddenly died.

That's what Otabek felt. Like something inside him suddenly died.

 _Denis Ten: Sochi Olympic bronze medallist dies of stab wound in Kazakhstan_ the BBC reported. Robbed in broad daylight by punks who just wanted the mirrors off his car.

His rink mate, his friend, and his idol—killed by humanity's pointless rage. He couldn't comprehend it, not through the many headlines or condolences or flowers sent to the rink they shared. The dream was dissolved in acid. The idea of skating made his head spin.

He ignored calls from Yuri and the pissed off texts that followed. He drove around Almaty wondering _what could he do now_. His mentor was gone, someone he had constantly sought guidance from, the one who opened the door wide enough for Otabek to slip through to the international realm.

He owed a lot to that man—no, Kazakhstan owed him everything—for fostering their dreams and carrying them places no one could ever imagine going to. And when Otabek saw their country's flag rise at the Sochi Olympics, he had never been more proud to be a Kazakhstan skater.

He breathed out a sigh and gripped the rubber handles on his motorcycle tightly. They would have to move on, eventually—and that was a bitter thing for him to swallow. But he knew there was one thing he could do as rink mate, _as a friend._

Preserve the path to the top. Give other skaters a chance to do something great.

He would never be Kazakhstan's dream. He would never accomplish so many feats at Denis did. But the least he could do was preserve the path he made for all of them, for Kazakhstan's future.

He smiled faintly. That was it.

Denis Ten was Kazakhstan's future. And Otabek would make sure to preserve that, whatever the cost.

All he needed was a medal better than bronze at the Olympics. He would slave every day and sell his soul just to accomplish that, and when he could finally stand on the podium, he would be one step closer to touching Denis and saying _this is because of you. Look what you let future Kazakhstan skaters do._

Thank you Denis Ten, for your overwhelming contribution to the ice skating world and to your country. You will forever be missed, and you will always be remembered as the skater who built Kazakhstan's future.

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 **Those in Kazakhstan will be in my thoughts.**

 **Soul Spirit**


End file.
